Some kind of Loving
by Strange Music
Summary: What should be, would be, might be or could be ; slashy Musing
1. Default Chapter Title

Some Kind of Loving   
Author: Strange Music-;   
Fandom: Hercules   
Summary: What should be, would be, might be or could be ;)   
Archive: if you are crazy enough to want it. Yes of course anywhere you   
like. Just tell me where it ends up.   
Email: Strange_music@hotmail.com   
Series/Sequel: Maybe not really sure yet. I am working on the Sequel from   
Hercules side.   
Web Page: http://home.germany.net/100-164832/Slash/Slash.html (The Sentinel   
Site)  
  
Disclaimer: None of the following Characters belong to me. Although it   
would be nice ;)  
  
***********************************************************  
  
First of all thanks for the warm welcome here. Take the story as a small   
'Thank you'  
  
This is my first try into Hercules Slash (All other where Sentinel and a   
few Multimedia)  
  
All in all it is a small musing about and of Iolaus2.  
  
It takes during the beginning of "Just passing thought"  
  
No Shakespeare but I hope you still like it a bit.  
  
All CCC (Comments Complains, Corrections) please to   
Strange_music@hotmail.com.  
  
Thanks in advance   
Karin  
  
**********************************************************  
  
Dreams Of Love   
by Strange Music  
  
I wasn't him...I knew that.  
  
And I also knew that I could never be him.  
  
Different worlds, were what literally parted us from each other.  
  
And so strange thing remained.  
  
Although I was him. Had his appearance, his voice, everything.  
  
Although I had all that  
  
I would never be..him.  
  
*********************  
  
"Iolaus?" Should I object...after all it was my name that Hercules spoke   
when he woke up. Still I knew, it wasn't me that he ment.  
  
His eyes clouded over, as he reached the same conclusion as I had.  
  
And the hard thing was, I couldn't even fight him.....me...the man that was   
me, that I would never in my life accomplish to be.  
  
I was a coward. As simply as that, there was no pink clouding about that. As   
soon as I was able to walk I had been running. Not like he..me..Iolaus.   
Maybe I should just call him that, he deserves the name more than I..I   
should just stick with the one that I had all my life.  
  
Coward.  
  
I would never be half the man that he was....never half the man that   
Hercules so obviously loved. I saw it in his eyes when he talked about him.   
About the adventures that they had lived thought together. And how even in   
his dead he had been a hero. Always by his side. Protecting the innocent.  
  
The only one I have been protecting was myself, and not even with that I did   
a good Job.  
  
I learned to make them laugh and with that I kept them from beating me up.   
Sometimes it worked and sometimes they just knocked me of despise of it.   
The sand in those cavern's was right....my past was dragging me down. Every   
day of my life and would continue to drag me down as long as I let it.  
  
But could this old dog really learn new tricks.....Could I change an   
instinct that was as old as I was.  
  
Looking over at him, smiling at me over dinner, I knew that I would do   
anything.  
  
After all this was a new start, into a world as strange to me as the person   
that I was supposed to be changing into, both equal unknown to me.  
  
He was packing up camp while I finished killing the fire.  
  
Feeling the gazes that he through in my direction like sunbeams on my back.  
  
*It isn't you* yet I couldn't help wishing I would be.  
  
I had never really told him, about the sands, the one positive thought that   
had saved our life's. It was none of the things that I had never told him.   
And how could I. Not when my only positive thought was the knowledge that   
*he* was dead and that finally I might have a chance to win his love.  
  
Sure there was already love in his eyes...like when he passed me my bag   
right now. But it still wasn't me.  
  
My great hope for the future was.  
  
That someday he might fall in love with me.  
  
Only me.  
  
The End  



	2. Default Chapter Title

**_Farewell to Unicorns_**

By: Laura Luchau

The psychologists who had long since theorized that cyclical lighting gave a reassuring sense of day and night could not imagine what this dim "night" lighting would do for several questionable bars in the lower levels of a space station such as Babylon 5. Already seedy, gritty and candidates for mystery novels and old-time B movies, these bars sunk to a level of outright sleaziness and danger. When the lighting dimmed, the dregs of the universe seem to crawl from the very walls into the light.

It was something Marcus Cole understood. There were certain constants in life. People chose their settings, or created places suited to their purposes. You could go to Mars, or Earth or any colony populated by humans and non-humans, and it was the eventual pattern. Here, information was a matter of roughing over the appropriate people, be they unhappy innocents in the wrong place, or the residential scum. 

However, Marcus was rather selective. He slipped into these dark places, his goal very specific, the candidates lined up in his internal sight, scum all. 

Innocence of all kinds was a treasure, and he diligently avoided making himself a villain. Marcus would wryly tell the world he was hero material, but in his heart he knew himself to be very little higher than the inhabitants of the dark places, the shadows. 

He aspired to hero status, however, in his heart of hearts. He contemplated this while eyeing a pathetic gathering of the usual suspects by the typical sad bar. 

Today was likely to be a disappointment. And where was his contact today? 

There had been no sign of another ranger all day.

As he turned from his shadowy lookout, he caught a glimpse of someone familiar to him. It was subconscious, for he would never have purposefully looked for her here.

But there she was, Susan Ivanova.

It never ceased to accelerate his pulse, just that name. He was looking at her fully, now, and it was as if a spiritual spotlight pulled her forward from the dimness, illuminating her. An unbidden quote came immediately to mind, but he squashed the impulse.

Marcus, he admonished yourself, you are hardly Romeo, and she is no Juliet.

Commander Susan Ivanova thought she had never encountered a seedier bar in the whole station and felt almost proper in such a place by comparison to the regular denizens. Her own stash of vodka long since drained and a new (illegal) shipment on its way, she had found only one place that stocked her favorite sin and felt it appropriate that 

she savored it in such a vile place. Yes, it was almost poetic.

She lifted her glass, tasting the vodka first on her tongue, when something subliminal made her turn her head. Some strange or familiar movement had sent off a little mental alarm. It wasn't surprising in this particular place.

Her eyes widened. But this was surprising, after all. It was unmistakably Marcus Cole approaching from the shadowy end of the bar. His hood was up, hiding his face, and the cloak closed over the ranger's pin, but it was Marcus all right. She'd know that walk anywhere. No one had that weird combination of grace, stealth and swagger.

He was also heading straight for her. How had he recognized her? She wasn't in uniform. Like him, she had dressed for the area, and although without a cloak, she had hoped she wasn't standing out with a sign overhead blinking 

"Officer."

"Commander," he said when within her range. The tone was suitably quiet and for her alone.

"Marcus - what are you doing here?" she found herself asking foolishly. What was Mr. Virtue himself doing, hanging around this place? Oh, but he dredged up information from such places, she remembered belatedly.

"Walking about, getting information - that sort of thing." How he managed to sound so off-hand, she'd never know. 

"And you?"

"Drinking vodka." She lifted her glass to the light.

"I can see that." Both his tone and expression were wry. What else could she possibly be doing here? his expression said.

"Ever since the captain's return, I've found drinking alone to be, . . . inadvisable. Grandfather used to say that drinking vodka is supposed to keep you from thinking, but for me, drinking causes me to think TOO MUCH." Where had that come from, she asked herself, perplexed. The last thing she wanted to do was unburden herself to Marcus Cole. Flustered, she added: "But where are my manners? Pull up a chair and have a glass."

Marcus pulled out the chair opposite her at her little table and sat, saying, "No thank you. I rarely drink."

"Why am I not surprised?" she said. She had expected such an answer. In some ways Marcus was far too prim. 

"Don't tell me; you don't do stims, either?" She also knew the answer to that one.

Marcus did a little bow from the waist, arms spread. "Commander, you know me too well." But his expression was curious, almost, she thought, flirtatious. Or was she imagining?

"Hardly." In fact she knew very little about him but for the well-known particulars, and a certain set of facts revealed by a certain private conversation once. "You know, unicorns are not so unlikely when you're around."

He was silent and she first thought she had embarrassed him, and felt a little guilty for her rather lame attempt at humor. However, he didn't look embarrassed. He looked thoughtful.

Lightly, she added, "Besides your questionable sense of humor, do you have ANY vices?" She took a sip. Cheap vodka, but any vodka was good.

His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Susan found herself setting down her drink. Undeniably, his impertinent sense of humor was back. "Not that I know of. Some might say my sense of humor is enough of a vice." He grinned.

Susan couldn't help but smile in return.

She was surprised to see him turn his head and stare. She traced his line of sight. A young woman in a short tight dress was making eyes at Marcus from the bar. Good luck, lady, she thought dryly. But turning once again to look at him, she was amazed to see that he had not looked away yet. He actually looked like he knew the girl.

"Excuse me," he said, and stood.

Susan's mouth dropped open as she watched him walk over to the girl. What the-? Dumbfounded, she watched as the two talked, the girl leaning back on the bar to display an impressive (Susan had to admit) pair of assets. Susan choked on her vodka as the girl threw her arms about the ranger, her mouth by his ear. Marcus nodded, pulled out a paper form his pocket, wrote something and handed it to her. The girl turned leaned forward and kissed him quickly, and taking the paper, turned and sauntered off.

Susan was amazed at her own discomposure. She was, in fact, stunned. Had she just witnessed what she thought she had? Was it possible? Mr. Chastity, Mr. "I'm saving myself"?

When Marcus came back and sat, she stared at him. 

"You're going to tell me that you didn't just hand over your Babcom access number to a prostitute, aren't you?" she asked, impressed by the bland face he presented her.

To her amazement, he grinned. "Very perceptive." He leaned forward and very quietly said, "Actually, she's not a prostitute; she's my contact disguised as a prostitute, so I don't blame you for making the assumption."

Was it relief she was feeling? But how could that be? Blowing out a breath, she asked, "And you handed her . . .?"

"Her contact for passing information."

She laughed, and drank. "Isn't all this just a little excessive?"

"Not at all. It's a very enlightening experience, going about in "plain clothes." You should do it more often."

The idea of "plain clothes" made her smile. Certainly she'd never thought dressing how Marcus' friend dressed. 

"You're not suggesting, like that . . .?" She glanced pointedly back at the bar.

Marcus followed her gaze with his own, and then his eyes went wide at the thought. "Oh, no." He sounded horrified.

In the low light, she couldn't be sure, but she could swear . . .

"Are you blushing?" she asked, ducking her head a little to better see his face clearly, and verify her suspicions.

"Excuse me, commander." He stood suddenly. "I must be on my way."

Susan watched as he left very hastily. "He was blushing." She grinned to herself. She couldn't recall ever seeing a man blush who was older than fifteen. "Incredible."

It was one of those rare days when Susan was off an entire day period. She hated her days off, because it only reinforced her suspicion that she could never spend her free time with any sense of enjoyment. She worried about what Corwin was doing up there at C&C, and wouldn't Sheriden need her?

She would invariably wind up spending the day in her quarters, expecting some emergency to call her back to duty, watching the latest news and catching up on paperwork. Sometimes the emergency came, but mostly she would look back on her "day off" and think: pathetic.

When the message came, it wasn't Corwin looking panicked, it was Marcus.

"Ah, commander. Good afternoon."

Surprise lifted her eyebrows. "Marcus. What's up?"

He looked painfully unsure of himself, and rather embarrassed. "I was hoping, well, you'd be able to do some "plain clothes" with me. You see, my usual partner isn't feeling very well today." He scratched the back of his head and smiled sheepishly.

"Oh, that girl from the other day?"

"Ah, yes." He didn't blush, but there was color in his face. "I suppose you're too busy, though . . . "

His boyish hesitation brought a smile to her face. "If you thought I would say no, why'd you ask?"

"Masochism?" He smiled wryly. "Sorry."

Susan studied his face on the screen. "Actually," she said carefully. "I could use a good walk." Boy, could she. She was climbing the walls in boredom.

There was a pause. Marcus's expression brightened. "Terrific. Meet me at the zocalo, west end. Say, an hour? Dress casual."

"Understood."

Susan had forgotten what it was like to walk the zocalo, and not be on duty, or on her way to or from C&C. On the way to meet Marcus, she actually looked at some of the carts. Fresh fruit, hmm.

She had actually played around with her hairstyle for the first time in years, and had gone through her closet and drawers with a fine-toothed comb, looking for something that wasn't black. She had depressed herself. When had she stopped being interested in attractive clothing? She'd never been into feminine dresses, but she used to have some sense of style. She had found a rare green tunic in the back of a drawer and was resigned to the inevitable black slacks.

She saw Marcus before he saw her. He was wearing an eye-opening blue silk shirt tucked into black trousers. He looked like a pirate from the old vids. She never thought a beard and long hair could be so attractive . . . 

Shaking her head at her own strange thoughts, she went up to him, and was almost on top of him before he recognized her.

"Hullo!" he greeted, and then fell silent, studying her.

Was the color really awful? Maybe if she put her hair a different way . . . She blinked. What was WRONG with her today? "Ahh, didn't you recognize me?" she asked.

"You look . . . different . . . when you're not in uniform, Command- er . . ."

""Susan" is fine." She was amused by his hesitancy.

" . . . Susan." How many times had he fantasized about calling her that? There she was, her hair up in curls, in a soft-textured leaf-green tunic that gently flowed about her breasts and hips. Marcus didn't have elaborate fantasies, but being with her in a casual situation was one of them.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" she asked and he had to remember what she was talking about.

"Well, . . . " he temporized.

She shook her head and tskked. "You shy types! So where to now?"

"Let's wander, shall we?"

"All right, but I have to tell you, I hate shopping." Side by side they began to casually walk through the zocalo.

"My luck," Marcus laughed softly. "More excitement, maybe? Gray 17, then?"

"Very funny."

She couldn't believe how fast time passed as they strolled along. She gave in and bought bread and a few apples from one vendor and almost stopped by a jewelry stand before she recalled who she was with. One didn't admire jewelry in front a man who was a potential . . . She shook her head. What was she thinking? Marcus wasn't anyone's potential anything, except for his mystery woman's. For some reason that made her grit her teeth. She really wished she knew who his woman was. She didn't deserve him, that was certain.

It was at least two hours later, when her feet began to ache from the walking. As they passed another T-shirt booth, she said: "This is certainly educational. Did you know that John and Delenn are the love-match of the century down here?"

"Ah, yes, actually." He looked up from a knife seller's display case. He was looking at an ornate Narn dagger. "They were laying bets in the bars not very long ago whether the captain was going to propose or not, and if so, when."

She shook her head in disbelief. "They're selling shirts with their pictures on them!"

"Yes; I've seen 10 different designs in the last 7 days." He looked at a Centauri knife, curling a lip in disgust.

He turned, nodding to the seller, and joined her in the walk. "Actually . . . Susan, I've meant to ask you . . . for advice." He tried to sound casual but for all he knew could be looking as nervous as he felt.

She gave him a teasing smile. "Romantic advice?"

Maybe she WAS psychic, he thought in surprise. "Ah, yes, actually."

It was her turn to be surprised. "I'm hardly an expert!"

"Let's face it; between the two of us, romantic advice from the female point of view is certainly more your area."

Susan sighed. Her feet hurt and he wanted romantic advice. Wonderful. "All right, but let's sit down for this."

They came upon a café-like area, and sat. A server appeared to take their order.

"Caf. Black." 

"Tea." Marcus said. "Darjeeling, if you have it." As the server walked away, he asked her, "Did he just give me a dirty look?"

She was beginning to see that Marcus was definitely high maintenance. His tastes ran to the unusual in food, drink, and decoration. He wasn't a man who enjoyed owning many things, but what he liked was always a little exotic, a little out of the ordinary. But then he was out of the ordinary himself.

"I didn't know they even serve tea around here," she said. "It's hard enough to get caf, and impossible to get coffee."

"Ah." He leaned back in his chair. "So, shall I begin?"

"I can hardly stop you," she replied wryly.

Marcus took a deep breath. This would be the hardest part. He was a bad liar normally, but desperation had made him very good at it, when it came to Susan Ivanova. "You see, this woman I've told you about . . . "

She immediately brightened, interested. "Oh, yes. The love of your life. You never did tell me her name."

"Nor will I," he said quickly before she continued with that line of thought. "This woman, well, she's very strong-willed, very independent – which I like, mind you."

She was disappointed in not knowing the name but shrugged. "Beautiful?" she asked knowingly.

"Oh." His smile was luminous. "Yes."

"Of course," she said dryly.

" . . . but this means that she doesn't express herself very well to me, so it is difficult to know what she wants from me. For instance, romantic gestures seem to threaten her rather than open her up."

A vision of roses flashed through her mind. "Threaten?"

"Well, you know "what do you want from me?" rather than "my hero!""

"Oh." This she understood. 

"So, what I mean to ask you is –"

"How do you tell her you're in love with her?"

"Yes." His eyes went wide with astonishment. "Yes, exactly."

She sighed. "You don't ask the easy questions, do you?"

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "maybe my second and last question will be easier."

"Oh?"

He took a deep breath and prayed that this would work. "What is a woman's ideal?" he asked. 

"Her ideal man?"

Her eyes went wide. "Marcus, I can't speak for all women!"

Inwardly triumphant, he said carefully, "Answer for yourself, then."

She didn't know why, but she was beginning to feel trapped. "That's not fair."

He smiled. "Shall I tell you my ideal, and then you tell me yours?"

"I suppose."

"Ahem." He cleared his throat. ""My Ideal Woman" by Marcus Cole."

She laughed.

"That's just the title," he admonished her. "My ideal woman is, first of all, strong and intelligent . . . "

Susan lifted a brow at that.

Marcus continued. "She can stand on her own, if she wishes to, but she is also capable of loving and committing to others. She is forthright, with a strong sense of duty. And of course," he gave her a wry smile, "if she is my ideal, she is able to love me, but perhaps doesn't know how to express it."

Ever cynical, Susan added, "You forgot "beautiful.""

"Ah, no. That's just a bonus. Your turn."

The server finally arrived with their drinks, so Susan had time to think.

"Ah, "My Ideal Man" by Susan Ivanova."

Marcus softly applauded. 

"My ideal man is . . . strong, but . . . gentlemanly. He's self-reliant but knows when to rely on others. Not too brash or crude, self-contained, maybe quiet. More a man of action than words."

Marcus considered this, and wasn't at all displeased. "You know, you ARE describing a man on this station," he informed her.

"No I'm not." She was indignant.

"But you are. That's Captain Sheridan."

"You think so?" For a moment there she had expected him to say she was talking about Marcus himself.

"But that's understandable," Marcus continued. "Everyone admires the captain."

"Yes . . ."

"They make quite a romance, John and Delenn." He seemed oblivious to the fact that she was having problems absorbing all of these personal revelations.

Finally, she recovered her mental balance. "Apparently everyone thinks so."

They watched as a couple of shoppers passed both wearing John & Delenn T-shirts.

As if to himself, Marcus said, "He doesn't deserve her."

"On the contrary," she countered, "she doesn't deserve HIM."

They both found themselves laughing, and then stopped abruptly with the realization that, somehow, the whole situation seemed horribly awkward.

"Say, if a man wanted to express his . . . er . . . affection for you," Marcus continued, "what would you consider to be the best way?"

"You want an honest answer?"

"Of course. Always."

"You know, I would say . . . honesty is best."

Apprehensively, Marcus considered this. "So he comes up to you and says, "I love you!"?"

"Hm." She reconsidered. "Yeah, maybe that's TOO direct."

Marcus could barely contain his sigh of relief. "I'll say."

"Friends are pretty good for this, though; a friend can always clue the person in on what's going on."

"Like "My friend is in love with you."?"

"At least the person becomes aware of the feelings of the other."

Marcus made an exaggerated face of disappointment. "No gifts?"

"Well, that's hard to say. If she feels threatened by romantic gestures . . . "

"Non-romantic gifts?"

"What?" Susan laughed. "A tool set?"

"A potted plant!"

"Stationary!"

"A basket of fruit?"

They found themselves laughing again and stop once more, awkwardly.

"But you should let her know, Marcus."

He couldn't quite look her in the face. "I know. It's just . . ."

"You're too shy. That's okay. Actually, that's kind of nice. I can't stand . . ." She realized what she was about to say in time, but not soon enough for Marcus's curiosity to be aroused.

"Yes?" he prompted her.

"Nothing."

Marcus grinned at her. "Now wait a minute; I bare my soul, and you say "nothing"?"

She knew when to give up. "Oh well. I just have had it with men in general . . ." At his astonished expression, she added, "I mean, okay, not MEN themselves, just the way they . . ."

"Express themselves?"

"Yes."

" "Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity, in least speak most." "

"Hm?" She knew he was quoting someone, but wasn't sure whom.

"There's an old saying: "Sometimes less is more." I think Shakespeare said it first. So what I am trying to say is, I understand."

"Maybe you do." She supposed, if any man understood romantic non-aggression, it was Marcus. 

"Anyway, I hardly have to worry these days."

"Oh? You'd be surprised." 

"What?" She looked at him suspiciously.

His face was all innocence. "Oh, if the captain and Delenn – during all of this crisis – why not any of us mortals?"

"Rare optimism. I like that."

Their conversation was interrupted by a travelling seller and his assortment of brightly dyed scarves.

"Buy a pretty scarf for your lovely lady, sir?"

Susan slip quietly down in her chair.

"Now who's blushing?" Marcus laughed.

It was a week later that Susan got an unexpected visit.

Answering the door chime, she asked, "Who?"

"Delenn," came the reply.

"Come."

Delenn entered at the opening of the door, smiling gently, "Good evening, Commander."

"Ah . . . come on in, Delenn. I didn't expect – did we have a meeting?" Delenn had never just shown up like this. It wasn't her style.

"Oh, no. This is . . . how do you say it? . . . a personal call."

"Oh? Please have a seat. Can I . . . get you something?"

"I am fine." The Mimbari carefully sat, arranging the skirt of her dress primly.

"So," Susan sat opposite her, "what can I do for you?"

"Actually, Susan, it is what I can do for YOU." Delenn regarded the commander earnestly. "It's about Marcus."

"Marcus?" Susan's eyebrows rose. "What has that to do with --?"

Delenn charged ahead. "Marcus has been showing a preferences for someone lately."

"Oh, yeah. I know."

The woman was surprised. "You do?"

"Sure. He's told me about it."

Delenn was dumbfounded. "He has?"

"Yeah, but he's having problems telling her about his feelings."

The Mimbari ambassador was thinking hard. "Oh."

"Do you know her name? He won't tell me."

"Oh dear." Delenn looked absolutely flustered. Suddenly Susan could feel her stomach sink. Had something happened with Marcus's beloved?

"What?"

Then Delenn said something that would change her life forever. "Susan, I think he is in love with YOU."

For once in her life, Susan was absolutely stupefied. Of all the things Delenn could have said, this was the least expected.

". . . that's not possible. Me?" She laughed weakly.

"I am certain of it. There is no one else he has shown any interest in. In fact, he seems to make any excuse to be near YOU." Everyone knew this but apparently Susan was completely unaware. Interesting.

"No, no, he's in love with someone else." The commander shook her head vehemently. Delenn was wrong.

"But who?"

Momentarily consternated, Susan could only say, ". . . I don't know."

"Are you SURE it is someone else, Susan?" The ambassador's lovely face was now intent on Susan's.

Eyes wide, her mind searched all the words he had used, all the ideas she had had about Marcus. 

"I . . . thought so. He said . . . oh my God." The conversation at the zocalo came back to her. "He said she was beautiful and intelligent." Surely that didn't mean HER. And anyway, it had been a long time since she suspected he might like her THAT way. "I mean, a while ago, I thought, . . . but not lately! He couldn't have been talking about me!"

Delenn said gently, "I think maybe he was."

They were both silent for a moment. Susan's mind was absolutely in chaos. Delenn was usually right about most things, how could she be so wrong? Or was it Susan who was wrong? Finally, she formed a logical question.

"Why are you telling me this, Delenn?"

The woman sighed. "Marcus is . . . he is not doing well, Susan. He is distracted. His work is suffering. And . . ."

"Yes?"

"The only time he comes alive and seems able to focus is when he is with you. Surely you have noticed."

Actually, she hadn't noticed. Marcus had always been the same around her, spirited, cock-sure, and a pain in the ass. He was often irreverent, too fond of quoting ancient Earth authors and had a sense of humor that made her want to hit him. Except, there had been that close conversation on the _White Star, where he had told her . . ._

"I still can't believe . . ." she whispered, her mind racing.

"I know. He does not do well, being forthright about how he feels." Susan stared at her, confused. He wasn't? Well, maybe not. He didn't really talk much about himself, hiding behind that sense of humor that so aggravated her. "He can only act on it. I have despaired about Marcus. He feels deeply yet he does not know how to . . . release these feelings."

It dawned on Susan that the only way she'd ever seen Marcus angry was when he fought. He fought a lot, always seeming to put himself in situations where he'd see the most action. She had sometimes wondered why he was so self-destructive in that one way, but not in any others.

Delenn was waiting, but Susan was too confused to say much. "Delenn – I don't know. I just . . . don't know."

"But Susan, at least you are aware."

Susan sat up a little straighter, making a connection. "Did he ask you to talk to me?"

"No. I think he has tried to broach the subject with me a few times; he would start, and then . . ."

Yes, Marcus did that quite a bit, actually. Heart hammering, she realized that Marcus would often seem to want to tell her something, yet never quite get to that point. "Yes, I know."

"For Marcus' sake, Susan, if you do not feel anything for him, do not let him go on like this. I believe it is not healthy for him. Not healthy at all."

Susan was silent.

Delenn excused herself, leaving Susan sitting by herself, a dark, somehow sad and panicked look on her face.

"Jesus, Marcus . . . why me?" Of all the women in the universe, this sensitive, quirky man who had saved himself for true love, had saved himself for HER, a woman who no longer could connect her heart with her head, who didn't WANT romance, because romance always ended up like ashes in the mouth. "Don't you know . . . I'm cursed? You can't love me." 

Marcus was playing his messages for the day. The last was the most interesting. 

"Message from: Susan Ivanova," the artificial voice told him.

"Relay message."

Susan appeared on the screen. "Marcus – sorry I didn't catch you in "real time." I wanted to discuss a mission that Delenn is planning, using a _White Star, and of course, you and me. There's dinner in it for you in my quarters if you can make it. Let me know."_

Marcus lost no time. "Reply to message from Susan Ivanova."

"Link established," Babcom told him.

Susan answered in person.

"Yes?"

"Commander." He was amazed he could speak with his heart in his throat.

"Marcus." She actually seemed pleased to see him. "Glad you got the message."

"Did I understand the message correctly?" He was still in shock. "You're going to cook?"

She smiled and he realized he had forgotten the other part of the message about the mission. 

"You heard it right."

"Tonight okay?" It was all he could do to say that as if he had said it every night of his life.

"Mm. Let me check." She glanced away for a moment. "Yes. Tonight's fine. Say eighteen-hundred."

"All right. See you then." 

He closed the connection. He never ceased to amaze himself. How had he gotten through that without choking up?

"I'm looking forward to this."

He showed up exactly on time Susan noted in approval, as he stepped into her quarters.

"Good evening, commander," he said with a courteous half-bow. He was holding something behind his back. She glanced at that in askance, and he produced a suspiciously familiar packet.

"Is that what I think it is?" she asked, perspiration starting at her neck.

"Why, yes." He gave her a wicked smile.

"I'll get the pot," she almost sung, eagerly moving to the kitchen. "Where did you get it?"

"Sorry, commander. State secrets."

"You don't drink coffee."

"No. But you do."

In the process of filling her coffee pot, Susan glanced at him over her shoulder. He didn't look like a man in love. 

Yeah, Susan, and what does a man in love look like? Like you would ever know! she admonished herself.

"It smells wonderful," Marcus said. She figured he was talking about the dinner that was warming in the skillet on her stove. He handed her the coffee packet and she poured the precious ground beans into the filter.

"Thanks." She wasn't much of a cook, but she knew how to make stroganoff. "Have a seat," she told him, motioning to the small dining table, set and ready. 

He obeyed, looking about himself curiously. It was strange having him in her quarters, intimate in a way. Did he think of it the same way? Was he nervous? He looked as placid as a still lake, as if he ate dinner with women in their quarters every night.

She brought the meal to the table and they ate together like old friends. Marcus believed in table conversation, but was not a table-debater, thank God. The mission never came up, and he didn't bring it up until she did.

Afterwards, as he helped her clear the dishes to the sink, he told her, "If I had known you cooked this well, I would have begged for a meal long before this."

She shook her head. "I'm a two-recipe type of girl, Marcus."

"Better than me. I'm a no-recipe man myself."

Susan laughed, gathered up a bottle and two glasses and poured them both vodka.

"Sorry, I don't –" he began to protest as he followed her back to the table.

"My grandfather used to say, "Never trust someone who never drinks. They have something to hide." She glanced at him meaningfully.

Just for a moment, she could almost swear there was a flicker of fear in his eyes, but it was gone so fast she immediately doubted she had seen it.

"Just half a glass." She gave him an encouraging smile.

He seemed to soften just a little as he sat opposite her.

"Please."

Marcus reluctantly agreed. "Half a glass."

As she poured, she fired the first salvo. "Delenn seems to throw us together on these missions a lot, doesn't she?"

Marcus coughed on his drink, glancing at her quickly.

She gave him a friendly smile. "Hey, slow down. It's meant to be sipped."

"Well," he said matter-of-factly, "we can't risk the captain or Delenn herself. That leaves you for command and me for translation."

She studied him as he experimentally sipped. So much for dancing around the subject. "You know, at the beginning, I thought Delenn might be trying to play match-maker." Salvo two.

Marcus nearly spat out his drink.

"Hey, are you all right? It's expensive to get real vodka out here, you know."

"Sorry. Swallowed too fast." He was not sure what had happened to the conversation, but it was taking an alarming turn.

Susan regarded him with a knowing expression. "Here." She refilled his glass. "You don't agree?" 

Bad to worse." Delenn doesn't have time for "match-making." Why bother?" 

Desperately, he swallowed half the glass.

"Maybe she thinks we're suited." 

Worser and worser. Marcus swallowed the other half. "It grows on you, doesn't it?"

Susan poured him another. "Can you feel your face?"

"Uh." He grimaced. "Yes."

"Tell me when you can't. That's when you've had enough." She purposefully switched topics. "You don't think we're suited?"

"I didn't say that!" Alarmed, he put down his glass. The vodka was hitting his system like nothing he had experienced before, and her sudden shift to interrogator was just as lethal.

"So, what do you think about it?"

Marcus was no longer able to think straight. "I'm sorry; I'm not tracking you."

Susan smiled with relish. Bull's eye. "What's her name, your lady love?"

He was having problems thinking straight, but he absolutely knew he wouldn't tell her the truth. 

"Ah, I'm not telling that."

"Is she on Bab 5?" she forged forward.

"Susan . . ." He rubbed his temple.

"Hm?"

He looked at her as directly as he was able, as the room was starting to spin. "Please don't ask me any more questions."

"Why?"

"Because I might answer them."

Susan was excessively pleased. "Good. Her name?"

"No." Absolutely was NOT going to tell her the truth.

"Why not? Unless you've made her up, she's got to have a name."

"Made her up?" he parroted weakly, muted red alerts going off in his fuzzy head.

Succinctly she elaborated. "Not real. Fiction. Made up."

He stared at her, blinked. Slowly, he said, "Are you saying I've been lying about her the whole time?"

"It's possible."

"Why would I do that?" This was not going well at all and he was getting the distinct sensation that he wouldn't be able to keep up with her sharp logic. She was running him in circles, and he could barely keep up.

"Good question. Why would you?"

"Oh God." He let his head fall down on the table over his hands. His brain had given up, and now his body was playing follow-the-leader.

"You really shouldn't drink, Marcus."

"Oh God. What's in that stuff?" 

"Fermented grain."

"It should be outlawed."

"It has been, historically." She reached out and took one of his hands by his head. "Marcus."

"Hm?"

"Are you tracking me?"

"Mmm." Barely.

"Do you like me?"

Marcus's brain was shutting down, and his voice was muffled by his arms. "Like you? Of course."

"Do you think we're friends?"

"I hope we are."

"Should we be close friends?"

"Close. Yes."

"Really close?"

Marcus raised his head blearily. "I'm tracking, but what's the target?"

"The state of our relationship: yours and mine."

Marcus raised his head fully, blinking rapidly. His brain was suddenly online and whirling. 

"When did we start talking about . . . ?"

"You don't trust me."

"AH??" That came out of left field!

"You won't tell me her name!"

"Now wait a minute!"

"If you trusted me –"

"Now come on!"

"Well, if you can't trust me . . ."

"Dear God."

"I guess we don't have much of a friendship. After all the woman's name is –"

"There is no bloody woman, all right!? No bloody name!" The words were out before he could retract them. "Oh God, you're driving me insane!"

Susan sat back in her chair with a shrewd look on her face. This was it, finally, the truth. After all of her self-deception, she surprised herself by not really being surprised. "Really? No woman; no name?"

"Bloody hell." He massaged his temple again, and managed not to look at her.

"You've been lying to me all this time?"

"No." Very quietly.

"Hm? What did you say?"

"I haven't lied to you." His voice was quiet and he wasn't looking at her, but the tone was as earnest as could be.

"You just said . . ."

Marcus turned his head and looked at her. "You did this on purpose. Got me drunk on this brew . . . from hell."

"Yes." She smiled unapologetically. "Marcus, tell me the truth, once in for all. I know you want to tell me. You can't help yourself, right?"

"Oh no." He was starting to comprehend the trap for what it was, and sat up straight in his chair. 

"Oh no. Not this way." He attempted to stand and failed.

"You won't ever do it when you're sober, Marcus." Her eyes speared him. She was enjoying his panic in an abstract way, because she knew she had won. "I know you." She knew it was the truth as she said it. "And if you were honest with yourself, you'd know it too."

"The truth?" He swallowed, shifting in the chair.

"Yes. Just the truth."

" "Just" the truth, she says!" He was stalling now, and she was getting impatient. Enough already, Marcus. You've lost!

"I'm waiting."

"No, by God! If you knew --!"

"If you don't tell me the truth, Marcus, how do you suppose that will make me feel?"

Marcus put a hand to his head, once again attempting to stand. "Ahh!"

She sighed, and decided to be merciful. "Want me to tell a truth first, and then you?"

"Jesus." He didn't know what else to do.

"All right" Like much of what had been said this evening, Susan's own words came from a place she had denied even existed in her heart and mind. "I'm really jealous of this other woman. See? I said it. If you would have told me her name earlier I would have hunted her down, and if she wasn't perfect, I'd have kicked her off the station. I really HATE her, in fact."

In the process of rubbing his forehead, he froze and stared at her. "You do?"

Susan looked at her vodka glass, still half-full. "God's truth." She swallowed the rest. "Now you."

"Ah, she's . . ."

Susan looked at him expectantly.

"You can't kick her off the station. She's commander of the station. She's . . ."

She finished for him. "She's . . . me."

"Yes." He was deflated. "You hate me now."

She surprised herself. She really had no such negative reaction. In fact, there was relief more than anything else, and a curious sense of lightness. "No. Why would I hate you?"

"It's not what you expected."

"Well, life's that way; I don't hate life; I don't hate you." Later, she would wonder if she herself had drunk too much. "In fact, I think I really like you."

". . . what?"

"Well, I didn't plan it that way; you're just really likeable."

Marcus laughed. "That's a lie! You've resisted long enough on that score!"

"What? Am I not allowed to like you? That's rather cruel of you."

Marcus clutched his head in both hands. "Oh God; I've got to lie down."

Susan stood and helped him to her couch. He laid down. She got some ice and held it to his forehead. 

"Do I really drive you insane?" she whispered.

"God's honest truth, you do," he groaned.

"I'll try not to do it in the future."

"It's inevitable." He was fading off to sleep. "You can't help it. That's how I knew . . . I loved you."

"Marcus."

The next morning, Susan woke slowly, as it was one of her few mornings off, and stretched lazily. She slowly got up, pulling on her black silk robe as she went, and went into the kitchen to start up the coffee. She glanced over to the couch and smiled. Marcus was still sleeping there, his back toward her. She had put a blanket over him before she had gone to bed, but it had fallen to the floor. After a moment's thought, she started a pot of water for tea and rummaged around for the few tea bags she had in the back of her cupboards.

"Dear God, am I in hell?"

She turned back. He was clutching his head and turning over on his back.

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Marcus slowly opened his eyes, becoming aware of where he was. "Hello. What's this?" He turned his head and saw Susan standing with her back to the stove, a vision of black silk and loose hair. His eyes opened wide.

"Good morning," she said, and turned back to take the boiling water from the stove and make his tea.

He stretched carefully and sat up, squinting in unaccustomed pain as his head throbbed with every movement.

She came to him and his eyes took her in. "This must be heaven." He then saw that she was carrying tea to him. "Oh, you ARE an angel." He shifted sitting up straighter, gingerly holding his head. "Did you poison me last night?"

"Never ever drink alcohol, Marcus. Here." 

She sat next to him on the couch and helped him drink the tea.

"I hope I did this right; I don't drink tea."

"You can't ruin tea." Over the rim of the cup, his eyes fell on her robe again. "What happened last night?"

"How much do you remember?"

"Did we argue?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Did I reveal any state secrets?"

"Some, but since most concerned me, I won't be telling anyone."

Marcus put down the tea. "Since I'm not dead, I guess you weren't severely offended."

"Not severely." It was fun watching him try to put things together. His head must be absolutely busting, and he must be completely clueless.

Marcus looked down at his clothes, the couch, her robe again – assessing.

"You don't remember a thing, do you?" she asked, almost laughing.

"Oh, I recall some things."

"Such as?"

"The meal was delicious."

"Thank you."

"We talked about . . . um, the missions, and Delenn. You thought she was match-making. Then you asked me . . . "

"HER name."

"What did I say?"

"The truth."

"I did?" He blinked.

" "There's no bloody woman, no bloody name.""

"I see," he groaned.

"Then you said that I drive you crazy."

"I did?"

"Well, you said "insane." You were pretty drunk."

"Ah."

Susan decided to be lenient. "No, you didn't do anything . . . impolite."

"Thank God." He looked at her quickly, gauging her reaction. "I mean, if I was going to do – SOMETHING – I would want to at least . . . er . . ."

"Remember?" She was trying not to laugh. She got up to get her coffee.

"Yes." The view from the back was as fascinating as that of the front, Marcus discovered, and followed her with his eyes.

"Stop staring, Mr. Cole," she said, with her back still to him.

He stared penitently at the ceiling. "Sorry."

Susan's hand communicator went off. 

"Yes? Oh. I see. All right. Give me half an hour. Well, I just got up, Garibaldi! Ah, what about him? Can't locate him? Just a moment.

"Want to start some rumors?" she asked Marcus.

"Ah, why not, if you're game?"

"He's here. I'll put him on."

Susan handed the communicator to Marcus with a wink.

Marcus was slightly distracted by that wink. "Chief. Ah, yes. Yes. All right."

Marcus handed the communicator back to Susan.

"He took that rather well."

"Who knows what he's thinking?" She sipped her coffee, regarding him over the rim.

"I have to run . . ."

"I know."

"Ah, thanks for the . . ."

"Yes."

"Well, bye."

"Tah-tah."

Marcus left in a hurry.

"This is definitely one for the diary."

Later the same day, as their usual warroom meeting broke up, Garibaldi intercepted Marcus first.

"All right. I'm mystified."

"Hm?"

"What was going on this morning?"

"I was borrowing tea from Susan." That lie was so transparent, he was sure even Delenn would be able to tell.

" "Susan?" IVANOVA doesn't drink tea."

"Oh?" Marcus was nonchalant.

Marcus walked off. Garibaldi then attempted to intercept Susan.

As soon as he was within range, Susan told him: "I'm not telling you anything."

"Ah, come ON. This has GOT to be good."

"Not a thing."

Susan walked off, and Garibaldi, at a loss, looked around, and spotted Delenn.

"Delenn!"

It was months later when Marcus received the message that changed everything. He regarded the haggard-looking trader on the Babcom screen.

"Look, I found it, okay. You said you'd buy it if I got it for you. It's not easy to find something like this way out here, and there's no way I can return-ship this thing. It's too big."

Marcus dropped his head in his hands. "All right. I'll take it, but you deliver it. I'll have people waiting at the destination to set it up."

"Your girlfriend is gonna LOVE this."

"She's not my girlfriend," Marcus groaned in despair.

"What?"

"Never mind."

He broke the connection and sat back, mind whirling. Everything had been going well. Slowly, but well. He and Susan were on speaking terms almost daily when neither one was on a separate mission. Even the missions together were enjoyable, their conversations more intimate. Susan was opening up to him, revealing a sense of humor and straight-forward friendliness that he had not thought possible. He was happy with the situation, walking on egg shells to not pressure her with his feelings or disturb their shaky relationship. Now, THIS. She was not going to like this. What insanity had led him to make such a request? It was THAT conversation, the first one on the _White Star that had started everything. More disasters came from that conversation daily._

Later that same day, Susan was returning to her quarters after a long day at C & C. She stopped at her door, noticing a note on the door. She removed and read it.

" "It comes from the heart. Don't hate me. –Marcus." Huh? What does he mean by— ?"

Susan opened the door and stepped inside, still puzzling over the note.

"Lights."

The lights came up in the room and she wandered into the more private bedroom at the back. 

"What the --?"

Where her regular bed ought to have been, there was a huge cherry wood four-poster canopy bed with the usual pillows, comforter and canopy. It looked very comfortable and very soft. Susan, dazed, walked slowly to the bed, and ran a hand over the comforter. As if against her will, she sat down, then laid down, her hand still running over the softness.

"Oh my God."

She was still holding the note in one hand. She looked at it again, dawning realization in her eyes.

"The bastard. The cunning, scheming, sweetheart of a bastard! Computer! Message to Marcus Cole, audio only, quick-link." 

"Link established," the artificial voice told her.

"Marcus, get yourself over here NOW! End message"

"Ended. Message received."

"What am I going to do with you, hm?" She looked at the note again. "Jesus, Marcus, how did you do this?"

Minutes later, Marcus ran up the Susan's door, looking nervous and panicked. The door opened without him pressing the chime. Susan leaned just inside, arms folded, one hand tapping her elbow. Her expression gave nothing away.

"Ah – I can explain," he rushed in.

"This ought to be good." Her face was carefully expressionless.

"Well. You see. I began looking for one ever since our conversation on the _White Star, about how you've always wanted a canopy bed. I made a deal with this merchant, and, it came in yesterday."_

"You want to see it?"

"Ah." He looked at her carefully. "You don't hate me?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Sure."

They entered the quarters, and then the bedroom. They stood there, staring.

"It certainly is . . . big."

"Mm. Yes. Enough room for . . . " She looks at him pointedly. " . . . the whole C & C."

Marcus blushed. "Do you hate it?"

Exasperated, she groaned, "Marcus, what am I going to do with you?"

"Just don't kill me, all right? If you don't want it, we could—"

"Of course I want it!"

"AH?"

"I've DREAMED about a bed like this! I've had erotic fantasies about a bed like this!"

Marcus' mouth dropped open. He shut it, then wiped his forehead. He was visibly sweating.

"You LIKE it?"

"I LOVE it! Thank you!"

Marcus grinned, then beamed with delight.

"Thank heavens. I thought you'd murder me."

"Don't worry, I might yet." Her mood changed abruptly. "It's a very intimate gift, Marcus. How am I going to explain it? Anyone who knows me, knows I wouldn't buy this for myself."

"Do you have to explain it?"

Susan looked at him. "Marcus, I have problems with intimate gifts, remember. How more intimate can you get than a bed??"

"Never mind."

She approached the bed. "You might say, it's a romantic gift, right?"

She turned and sat on the bed and looked at him expectantly. 

Marcus ran a finger under his collar. "I guess so." Was it his imagination, or was it getting hotter in here?

"Even . . . lover-like?"

"Ah . . ." Now she was scaring him. He was not expecting this teasing side of her.

"Marcus, come here."

"Do I have to?" In situations with Susan, he always felt comfortable in retreating, and this was no different.

Susan stood and went to him. The very way she prowled up to him, he could feel his knees turn to water. She looked at him, her eyes bright. Slowly she reached up, touching his cheeks with feather-like touches of her fingertips. He swallowed. He opened his mouth to say something but her finger interceded, shushing him. With erotic slowness, she traced his lower lip with her thumb, and smiled when his breath caught. He knew he ought to be either running like hell or putting his arms around her, but he was frozen, actually emotionally petrified. He had two conflicting impulses, and neither prevailed. When she slid her arms about his shoulders and leaned against him, part of him thawed, or was it quite the opposite? Part of him saluted. 

Susan grinned up at him, feeling his very male reaction, pressing closer and kissing him. He reacted, very slightly, very slowly. It was promising, and she rather liked that he wasn't attacking her in lust. It was a challenge.

"Come here." 

She took his hand and led him to the side of the bed. He followed, not resisting, looking amazed.

He was astounded and growing faintly hopeful. "Ah – are you going to have your wicked way with me?"

"Say, THAT'S an idea."

When she put her arms about him this time, Marcus was no longer as hesitant. What had begun as terror was slowing evolving into a need that must be obeyed. He leaned in and kissed her slowly and carefully. God! There was no other feeling like kissing her, holding her. She groaned, coaxing his tongue into play. As his tongue thrust into the wet heat of her mouth, he pulled her closer, hands caressing her hips and back. She pressed into his erection, reveling in the ache and heat spreading in her. It had been so long; she had thought she would never feel this combination of lust and love. There was nothing like it.

Marcus began to kiss her neck and throat.

"This is such a huge bed, isn't it?" she asked him breathlessly, her mind grasping at thoughts sluggishly as her body caught fire and burned.

"Mm." He distracted her with his exploratory licks and nibbles and his growing confidence, along with that other part of him that was also growing.

"All sorts of things could happen in a bed like this, . . . but something's missing."

He smiled against her throat and then lifted his head. "Oh?"

"Let's see." She assessed him, sliding her hands to his shoulder, then maneuvered him and propelled him back onto the bed so she was on top. "That's better."

Indeed it was, his overwhelmed mind agreed, and other relevant parts of him agreed as well. He made a hash of loosening her hair until she helped, but burying his hands in the silken mass was reward beyond hope.

"You kiss really well for a unicorn-boy," she said in the midst of exploration. She sat up a little and removed her jacket.

He chuckled. "I'm inexperienced, not dead."

She laughed softly. "No," she agreed, her hands finding him through the fabric of his trousers. 

"No, you're not dead."

He was actually speechless for a time, all of his higher functions subsumed by white-hot feeling.

"Marcus? Love?" 

He blinked up at her. It took a moment for him to process her words, and then he smiled. "Yes?"

"When exactly, do you think, do unicorns abandon us?"

He bit his lip in thought. Susan had never seen him do that and found it probably the most erotic thing she had seen him do. 

"Well, I'm not expert, mind you," he said rather seriously, considering their position, "but general carnal knowledge usually did the trick. In modern thought, unicorns are attracted to innocence of the mind OR body."

She considered him. Somewhere in the midst of everything, his cloak had come unpinned, and his jacket removed. High color was in his face and his eyes were a slumberous blue. When he had fallen back on the bed, his long hair had fanned out a bit behind him. He looked thoroughly compromised. 

"All things considered," she told him, "I think even this qualifies as carnal knowledge."

"Oh yes," he agreed, and she felt heat spiral through her as his eyes turned even darker. "At least for me."

"Then . . . " she whispered, smiling, "bid farewell to your unicorns, my dear."

He smiled, responding to the intimate laughter in her eyes. "Gladly, love. Most most gladly."

END


End file.
